


Oh No!

by ohthislove



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Biting, Blood, F/M, Kidnapping, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Possessive Behavior, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, reader is in high school but is 18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27290977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohthislove/pseuds/ohthislove
Summary: You unexpectedly catch the eye of a psychopath when you stand up for yourself.
Relationships: Jerome Valeska/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 54





	Oh No!

**Author's Note:**

> happy halloween! this is a fic i had written a while back that i edited A LOT. hope you enjoy :)

"Score, Gotham, score! We want more!" you chanted along with your fellow cheerleaders at the top of your lungs, rustling your maroon and white pom poms to the rhythm. "Hit 'em where it hurts and knock 'em to the floor!"

The bus erupted in a series of whoops and hollers, the excitement for the upcoming game palpable in the air. The bus driver glared at the cheerleaders in the rearview mirror. "Sit down!" he shouted.

You did as you were told and returned to your seat, the other cheerleaders mimicking you. You sat closest to the aisle next to a girl named Isabella Green. She was relatively quiet and kept to herself, but your time on the squad together had opened her up to you, and you ended up becoming close friends over the years.

“Ready for the game to be over?” she asked with a roll of her eyes.

You playfully bumped your shoulder into hers. “Stop! It’s the last game of senior year. Try to enjoy it while it lasts?”

She forced out a wry laugh. “That’ll be hard to do with Peyton breathing down my neck.” She glared in the direction of the ruthless cheer captain loudly chatting with her friends at the front of the bus.

You opened your mouth to come to Peyton’s defense when the blare of a car horn cut you off. The bus lurched to a stop, nearly throwing you and Isabella out of your seat. You gripped the back of the seat in front of you to steady yourself. You whipped your head forward to look out the windshield and saw a red truck with the words “HEST OIL” on the side blocking the bus’s path. You rose slightly out of your seat and peered above the other confused cheerleaders’ heads to get a better look at what was going on.

Three figures piled out of the truck wearing white straitjackets. One of them scrambled to get the door on the driver’s side of the truck and yanked on the handle. It swung open, and he stood at attention as the final member of the group emerged from the truck.

A tall boy of about nineteen with fiery, red hair hopped out of the truck. Judging by the confidence he exuded and the way the others regarded him, it was clear he was the leader of their little group. You couldn’t help but notice that he was attractive. He had a boyish charm to him, but any appreciation you had for his appearance dissipated when his lips stretched into a menacing smile that sent shivers down your spine like ice had been poured down the back of your uniform.

As the four men made their way over to the bus, you seemed to realize at the same time the rest of your squad did who they were: the Maniax, the recently escaped inmates of Arkham Asylum who were wreaking havoc all over Gotham City. The footage of them mercilessly murdering people by throwing them off of a building had played nonstop on the news, so it was impossible _not_ to recognize them.

The cheerleaders exchanged weary glances, and the unnerving silence that had fallen over the bus was pierced by hushed, frantic whispers. The redhead skipped over to the bus gleefully, spinning and sliding as he came to a stop in front of the glass door like a dancing child. He stared the bus driver dead in the eye as he tapped the gun in his hand against the glass in a signal for him to open the door.

Screams arose from the group once they realized exactly what kind of trouble they were in for, piercing your ears. You, on the other hand, had the complete opposite reaction: you became paralyzed, every muscle in your body freezing up as the gravity of the situation hit you like a freight train. You felt impossibly cold, and your mind could only comprehend five words: _I am going to die._

Reluctantly, the bus driver gave in, his finger hovering over the button before eventually pressing it. You knew there wasn’t much else he could do, but you still couldn’t help but feel betrayed. The door opened with a rush of air, and a pleased grin spread across the redhead’s face.

He skipped up the steps and paused at the top of the stairs. He leaned down and swiftly seized the driver by his collar. He yanked him out of his seat and sent him hurtling down the stairs. He tumbled out of your view, but a second later, a gunshot rang outside, earning several yelps from the group. You flinched and squeezed your eyes shut tightly.

Panic spread throughout the bus like wildfire as cheerleaders leapt out of their seats. They rushed towards the different exits, shoving and pushing each other like animals. The redhead immediately put a stop to this behavior, however, by raising his gun in the air and firing one shot at the ceiling. The blast echoed throughout the interior of the bus, and everyone froze where they were. The attempted escapees slowly returned to their seats, watching him with fearful, anxious eyes like a deer caught in headlights.

The redhead grinned. "Ladies," he glanced at the few male cheerleaders, furrowing his brow, "and gentlemen," his momentary confusion subsided, and his eerie smile returned to his face, "stay where you are, or else that won't be the only time I shoot."

You swallowed the urge to scream and reached for Isabella’s shaky hand. She intertwined her fingers with yours, gripping tightly. You glanced at her face. Her eyes were red, and tears streamed down her cheeks, taking bits of mascara with them. Her glossy lips were pursed into a thin, quivering line, and you could tell she was choking back sobs. You gave her clammy hand a reassuring squeeze, although you were freaking out internally just as much she was.

The three other psychos boarded the bus and joined the redhead’s side. "Boys," he commanded, grinning out at the cheerleaders sinisterly, "cuff 'em."

The men smiled and stared at the group like predators stalking their prey. They went row by row, handcuffing cheerleaders to their seats while their hostages resisted the urge to protest, stifling sobs and weeping silently.

A man with untamed curly hair was the one to approach where you were sitting. He leaned over you to handcuff Isabella first before turning to you. When you didn’t offer him your hands, he roughly tugged on your wrists and chained them to the seat. You narrowed your eyes at him until they were slits. If looks could kill, he certainly would’ve been six feet under.

He pulled away from you and met your deadly gaze. His lips pulled back to form an evil grin, and you noticed with disgust that his teeth were yellow, sharpened points like a shark’s. It only lasted a second before he moved onto the next row in a flash, and you watched him go, your gut churning with revulsion.

You didn’t know what had changed within you, but suddenly you were no longer racked with anxiety. All you could feel now was disdain and hatred for these men, these murderers who were torturing you and your friends for their perverse enjoyment.

After everyone was handcuffed, two of the men exited the bus while the curly-haired one stayed alongside the redhead. He guarded the door to make sure no one else tried anything while the redhead stood at the front of the bus.

"I want you all to know," the redhead paced down the middle of the aisle, his footsteps loud like claps of thunder in the otherwise quiet bus, "this was a very difficult decision for us." He approached the seat where Peyton was cowering in the corner. "It was between you and a senior citizen bingo party."

He aimed his gun at her head, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Her teeth sank into her lower lip so aggressively you thought she would split the skin, and you could tell she was trying her best to remain quiet. He pulled his gun away, chuckling at her reaction.

"In the end, we decided to skew a little younger.” He moved away from her and continued down the aisle like a shark circling the water. “Youth won the day. Sorry.” He faked an apologetic pout, although it didn’t seem sincere in the slightest. He returned to his place at the front of the bus and shouted, "Give me an O!"

Your brow furrowed in confusion. The cheerleaders jerked in their restraints, trying uselessly to break free. You thought you heard a few people plead, "Please, let us go!"

The amused expression dropped from the redhead's face, and he raised his gun to the ceiling again. He fired, the booming gunshot piercing the air and catching you off guard. Those around you shrieked before growing quiet.

"I said,” he gritted his teeth, “'give me an O!'"

"O!” you and the others repeated after him.

"Give me an N!”

"N!”

"Give me another O!" he cheered with imbued enthusiasm.

"O!” you stuttered out, your voice wavering and unreliable.

"What does that spell?" he asked, smiling wildly.

You all chanted together in unison, "Oh, no!”

The curly-haired man handed him a hose, which the redhead gladly took. A mysterious liquid spouted from the nozzle, and he aimed the stream at the cheerleaders in the seats closest to him. It took a second for the putrid odor to reach your nose, but when it did, you identified it as gasoline. Your eyes went wide as you realized his intentions.

_He’s going to light the bus on fire._

The redhead walked up and down the aisle, dousing the entire bus in gasoline. He made sure to spray it directly in some people’s faces, delighting as they panicked and sputtered from being hit with the harsh blast head on. He sprayed the hose above your seat and those around you in a large arc, and drops splattered off the windows and falling down upon you like acid rain.

You found that the gasoline lubricated your hands just enough that when you contorted them (probably injuring them in the process), you were able to slip them out of the handcuffs. It took quite a bit of effort, but once you were freed, you hid your hands between your knees out of the redhead’s view. The skin around your wrists was red and raw from the metal cuffs digging into them.

You started to hastily throw together a plan in your mind. There had to be _something_ you could do to save your friends. Escaping obviously wasn't an option; the curly-haired man was still standing guard at the door. Getting help wasn't a viable choice either, in case you alerted the redhead that you were free. The only thing there was left to do was to face the redhead straight on. Although you could be killed in the process, you would take your chances. It wasn’t like sitting there obediently would change that outcome anyway.

The redhead passed by your seat, and when his back was to you, you sprang up and launched yourself at him. You landed on his back, a cry falling from your parted lips. Your surprise attack threw him off balance, and he grasped at the backs of the seats around him to steady himself. The cheerleaders around you stared at you with wide eyes and slack jaws. You instinctively grabbed onto his hair, attempting to tear out tufts of red orange as you sunk your teeth into his neck without thinking. You felt the bared skin break and something wet seep out from around your teeth.

He yelled out in anguish as you marred his alabaster flesh. In one swift movement, he leaned forward, sliding you off of his back, and you hit the floor with a solid thud. Every bone in your body ached, and it felt like the wind had been knocked out of your lungs, leaving you gasping for air.

You groaned in pain, squeezing your eyes shut, and when you opened them, you were staring down the barrel of a gun. You raised your gaze a little higher and locked eyes with the redhead staring down at you.

It was like all the air had been sucked out of the bus. You studied his angered expression, his tense brow and lips pulled back over his teeth in a sneer. But as quickly as it had appeared, his countenance softened into one of shock. You imagined what you must look like. The copper taste of his blood was still on your tongue and surely smeared across your lips like rouge, the same blood dribbling out of the bite on his neck and staining his otherwise pristine straitjacket.

You stared at each other for what felt like hours, like you were the only two people on the bus. Those around you held their breath, anxiously fidgeting and waiting in anticipation for what would happen next. Then, his lips slowly curled into a smile.

"You," he began slowly, "got out of your handcuffs, then had the audacity to attack me?"

You blinked at him. You didn’t get a chance to respond as manic, crazy laughter bubbled from his lips. You winced while the redhead doubled over, slapping his knee. The sound made your skin crawl, and from the looks on the faces of the cheerleaders around you, it had the same effect on them as well. He wiped away a stray tear rolling down his cheek as his cackling ceased. He shook his head at you, the gun still trained between your eyes.

"You, you are crazy. I like you already." He took a step closer and towered over you until his face was mere inches from yours. "You're coming with me, princess."

Before you had time to register the weight of his words, he wrapped his arms around your waist and threw you over his shoulder. He spun around and started marching towards the exit. You heard cries of your name, and you looked up to see Isabella staring after you with glassy eyes and trying to rise out of her seat.

Gasoline dripped down the stairs as the redhead hopped down them, forming a puddle on the pavement. You shrieked, beating your fists against his back and kicking wildly, although your assault didn’t seem to affect him in the slightest. Once he was off the bus, he tossed the hose aside carelessly and set you down.

The second your feet touched the ground, you tried to run, but you barely got a step away from him before his arm snaked around your waist. He pulled your back flush against his chest and buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply. You squirmed in his grip and clawed at his hold on you, but he remained strong and stoic like a sentinel. Your efforts were to no avail.

The other three men rejoined the redhead outside of the bus. Their brows wrinkled in confusion when they noticed that you were with him, but as he pulled out a lighter with his free hand, they quickly disregarded your presence. It was clear that he was the one in charge here.

"Ready? Okay!" The redhead held the lighter close to the gas on the steps. You twisted around in his arms and hid your face in his chest, not wanting to see the moment the gas caught fire.

"Don't worry, princess," his voice cooed right in your ear. "You get a front row seat to the light show!"

You whimpered in response. "Please, don't do this!"

He ignored you and continued to flick the lighter. When it still didn’t light, he huffed in frustration and looked at his friends. "This is so embarrassing," he muttered under his breath. He looked over at the bus. "Does anyone got a light?" He was met with screams in reply.

"I do!" a voice behind you said eagerly.

You spun around as the redhead did, and you saw that the voice had come from one of the members of the group, a man shorter than all the rest with a small stature and close-cropped hair that curled around his ears. He dug the lighter out of his pocket and held it out to him. There was a light in his eyes, like he was eager to please.

Just as the redhead was about to take the lighter from him, the wail of sirens caught their attention.

You turned your head to see three cars swerve into the parking lot and skid to a stop. Two of them were police cars, and you couldn’t help but feel a spark of hope ignite inside of you. The sound of car doors slamming shut resounded in the lot as policemen got out of their vehicles, guns drawn.

"Stand your ground, boys.” The redhead’s lips curled into a smile as he and his friends got out guns of their own. “They can't shoot at the bus."

With that, all hell broke loose.

It was like open season as they shot at the cops, bullets ricocheting off of the cars’ metal exteriors and shattering the glass in the windows. The opposition could do nothing but watch, dodging bullets where they could.

“Hold your fire! Hold your fire!" you heard a voice amongst the policemen shout.

You watched in horror as one man got hit in the chest and crumpled to the ground. You yelped and receded further into the redhead’s grip for protection.

"Aaron, Greenwood, go get the truck started,” the redhead instructed the curly-haired man and the last member of the group you had neglected to notice. He was tall, bald, and well-built, the features of his face set into a grim expression. “We're gonna blow this barbecue!"

The two men nodded firmly and hurried off. The redhead turned to address the smaller man from before but noticed a detective sneaking closer to the bus. He whipped around and aimed his gun at him. The detective ducked behind the car just in time to avoid the shot.

The redhead fired again and again until he pulled the trigger and nothing happened but a dull, hollow click. He clenched his jaw and dropped the empty gun to the ground. Twirling a finger in the air, he commanded, "Light 'em up!"

He retreated to the truck, dragging you with him. You kicked your legs in the air and released an ear-splitting scream from your throat. He picked up the hose and sprayed more gasoline at the bus, laughing that same eerie, hysterical laugh. It was rough and low, like it was stuck in his throat and resonating from his chest.

He grabbed onto the side of the truck as it drove away, leaving the smaller man behind to set the bus on fire. He banged the hose against the truck, his face contorted in an expression of perverse glee.

Once they were far enough away from the bus, the redhead yanked open the door to the truck and slid inside. You latched onto the frame of the open door and pulled against his arm around your waist. "Let go of me, you monster!"

He ripped you away from the frame and closed the door behind you. He easily maneuvered you like a doll so you were in between his body and the curly-haired man’s. You found yourself awkwardly squished between them in the cramped cab, along with the bald man who was driving the truck.

"This one's feisty," the redhead chuckled. "Greenwood, hand me some rope."

The curly-haired man did as he was told, and the redhead wrapped rope around your wrists and ankles, tying them in strong knots. "Let's hope you don't get out of these like you did with those handcuffs."

The curly-haired man leered at you, looking you up and down like you were something to eat. "Who's this?" His mouth twisted into a demented smile, and he placed his hand on your knee. You writhed, trying to get away from him, although you knew it was of no use with your hands and feet bound together.

The redhead slapped his hand off of your leg. The look on his face was oddly serious. "Touch her again, and I'll cut off your hand.” An animalistic growl rumbled deep in his chest.

Fear was evident in the curly-haired man’s eyes, but he played it off, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his seat.

You stared straight out the windshield, silently praying that you didn’t see a column of thick, black smoke rising into the sky. Your chin wobbled as you thought about your friends roasting alive, flames licking and devouring their skin as they screamed in agony. You imagined the stench of burning flesh permeating the air. A small tear escaped from the corner of your eye and rolled down your cheek. You hoped the policemen had found a way to stop the smaller man from lighting the bus in flames in time.

Suddenly, the redhead gasped, drawing your attention to him, and he brought his hand up to the fresh bite mark on his neck. He pulled his hand away and stared at the ruby red blood sticky like syrup coating his skin.

"I hope I'll get to bite you too, princess.” He smirked. "I'm Jerome. What's your name?"

You didn’t answer; instead, you spat at him.

Your saliva landed directly on his cheek. He flinched and wiped at it with his bloodied hand. He stared at the combination of his blood and your spit on his fingers almost as if he were mesmerized before sticking them in his mouth. He stared straight into your eye as he sucked on his fingers, moaning sensually.

You grimaced, recoiling in disgust. He removed his fingers from his mouth and laughed at your reaction. “You want a taste?” He held his hand out to you as if he was offering you a lick of his ice cream cone.

"You're disgusting," you hissed.

He cackled again, and the sound rattled your bones. "What's your name, princess?"

You narrowed your eyes at him. He stared at you until you eventually gave in and gave him your name.

He repeated it as if he was tasting it on his tongue. Then, he hummed thoughtfully. "I think I like princess better."

-

What felt like a very long car ride later, you found yourself in the middle of the Maniax’s secret lair. It was not what you had expected at all, not in the slightest. Instead of a dark, dingy cave or abandoned warehouse, the domestic terrorists resided in an upscale penthouse that was lavishly furnished and overlooked a beautiful view of the Gotham City skyline. _Who knew insane asylum patients had such good taste in home decor?_

You were greeted by two people when you got there: the first, a man dressed in an expensive, tailored suit with slicked-back, raven hair; and the second, a woman wielding a scary-looking whip wearing a black leather jumpsuit, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Neither of them looked happy to see you.

"We're back!" Jerome singsonged, skipping into the room and dragging you along behind him. He had undid the rope around your wrists and ankles, but his hand on your arm was heavy like a ball and chain.

"And unsuccessful.” A scowl settled over the mysterious man’s features. "After you fled the scene, Detective James Gordon knocked out Dobkins and moved the bus before any flames could catch. We had to assassinate Dobkins before he could expose us."

You released a breath you hadn’t realized you had been holding at hearing that your friends were alright, your eyes fluttering closed. Even though you were at the mercy of these maniacs, the knowledge that your friends were safe gave you the smallest sense of relief.

Beside you, Jerome’s jaw clenched, and his free hand curled into a fist, nails digging into his palm. “I should’ve killed that idiot myself," he seethed.

"Who's this?" You opened your eyes to find the mysterious man’s on you. The weight of his gaze was heavy, as if he could see straight through you. If Jerome was a demon, this man was surely the devil.

"This," Jerome slung an arm over your shoulder and pulled you into his side, "is my girl, princess." He beamed like he was bringing a girl home to meet his parents for the first time.  
The mysterious man’s frown deepened. "Jerome, you can't just go kidnapping innocent girls whenever you feel like it.”

"Oh, she's not innocent.” He chuckled and pointed to the bite mark on his neck. It was starting to scab over but still stood out like a brand on his ivory skin.

The mysterious man looked at the woman next to him brandishing the whip like they were communicating telepathically. The woman turned to you, and with a flick of her wrist, the leather of her whip was coiled around your throat.

Your eyes went wide, and your lips fell open, but no air passed between them. Your hands automatically shot up to grip onto the whip, but it slipped between your fingers like the scales of a snake. She tugged on the other end of the whip, and you were yanked out of Jerome’s arms. The whip constricted around your throat, and a squeak escaped your lips as you fought to breathe.

A look of pure, unadulterated panic came over Jerome’s face. "Stop!" He froze for a second, unsure of what to do, until in a split second decision he reached for the bald man’s gun. He snatched it from him and pressed the barrel against his head. "If she goes, I go. And you need me.”

You watched the mysterious man’s countenance slowly crumble as his gaze flickered back and forth between you and Jerome, questioning just how valuable he was to this little team.  
"I swear to God, I'll do it," Jerome threatened and cocked the gun for extra emphasis. His tone was even, and his hand was steady.

Your hearing grew muffled, and your lungs burned from a lack of air, collapsing in on themselves like a house of cards. The mysterious man gave the woman another meaningful look. She hesitated, but just as gray spots started to dance across your vision, she retracted the whip. Without the whip to hold you up, you fell forward, but before you could hit the ground, Jerome caught you in his arms.

You heard the gun clatter on the ground next to you; Jerome must’ve dropped it in order to catch you. Your throat felt impossibly dry and sore as you gasped for air. You coughed and wheezed, tears springing in the corners of your eyes.

You felt Jerome raking his hands through your hair. You wanted to push him away, but you were too weak. “It’s okay, princess. I’ve got you,” he assured you.

The woman with the whip glared at the mysterious man. He shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Let the boy have his fun. Maybe he’ll be more focused when he’s gotten it out of his system.” He shifted his gaze to Jerome. “If she gets in the way, I won’t tell her to stop next time.”

He walked away, the soles of his dress shoes slapping against the tile. The woman with the whip shot you and Jerome on the floor one last scalding glance before she followed after him.

Jerome watched them go with something akin to madness tainting his gaze, but it all melted away when he looked at you. He kneeled at your side and leaned down to whisper in your ear, “Are you alright, princess?”

When you managed to recover somewhat and regain your breath, you swatted at his hand in your hair. “Don’t touch me.” Your voice was too hoarse, and what you meant to be a firm protest came out more like a whimper from a kicked dog.

The look of concern on his face disappeared at your words, and a grin took its place. “Sounds like you’re just fine.”

He jumped to his feet and grabbed your hands, roughly pulling you off the floor. In one fluid motion, he threw you over his shoulder again. “Princess and I are going to be spending some much needed bonding time together.” He started in the direction of the stairs. “Don’t disturb us!”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” you heard a voice laced with sarcasm say. You looked up to meet eyes with a woman who had curly, blonde hair. She wrinkled her nose at you as Jerome passed by her.

You didn’t bother retaliating this time around as he carried you up the stairs. All the energy had been sucked out of you from your earlier escape attempts and near death experience. He walked down a hallway and kicked one of the doors open. He stepped inside, and only when you heard the lock turn on the closed door behind you did he finally put you down.

You righted yourself and stepped out of his grasp, choosing to observe the room instead. It was rather plain, the only pieces of furniture a queen-sized bed, a dresser, and a nightstand. The walls were bare, and there were no decorations to bring life into the dull room, nothing to make it seem like a place someone actually resided in, like whoever slept here was only doing so temporarily.

"Welcome to my humble abode!" Jerome spread his arms out wide and gestured to the room. "It's no Palace of Versailles, but it's a lot better than the trailer at the circus or a cell in Arkham."

So _this_ was where you were to be held captive during your stay here, however long that may be. It suddenly became apparent to you that there was no guarantee that you would live long. It was only a matter of time before Jerome grew bored of playing with you and disposed of you like an old toy or those two people downstairs thought you too much a liability. Your thoughts quickly drifted to your friends and your family. You wondered if they had started searching for you, although you knew whether or not they did, there was no way they’d be able to find you. _At least, not alive._

You wrapped your arms around yourself as Jerome circled you like a shark who smelled blood in the water, the look in his eyes scarily intense. “I want you to tell me what you’re thinking, princess.”

It was hard to look him in the eye. “Who were those people downstairs?”

He quirked a brow. “You mean Tabitha and Theo?” Figuring that's who they were, you nodded. “Our benefactors and generous hosts. They’re the ones who broke us out of Arkham.”

 _So that explains the fancy penthouse._ Although, you wondered what two clearly wealthy and established yet inarguably unhinged people like them had in store for the inmates and, most of all, where you fit into it all.

“But I know that’s not what you really wanted to ask me.” His pace was relentless, circling around and around like a never ending spiral. “What’s been on your mind since you first got here.”

You did have a burning question on your mind, a question that had been nagging at you for a while, but you hadn’t been able to voice it out loud. Mostly because you were scared of the answer.

“Why me?” Your voice sounded so small. “Why take me in the first place?” He could’ve killed you a long time ago for disobeying his orders, and yet he chose time and time again to keep you around.

He laughed as if you had said something funny. He stopped in front of you. “Because, princess,” he reached out to caress your cheek, and you flinched as his hand made contact with your skin, “there’s a spark inside of you. You’re brave and fearless.” He swiped his thumb across your cheekbone almost tenderly. “I admire that about you.”

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. In a momentary burst of rage, you pressed your hands against his chest and shoved him back as far as you could (which wasn’t very far). “Fuck you!” Your voice resonated off of the empty walls.

He barely stumbled back a step, unfazed by your anger. “Only if you’ll do the honors.” He winked smoothly.

You raised your arms to strike at him again, but before you could even get one blow in, his hands wrapped around your wrists like handcuffs. He guided you backwards until the backs of your knees met the bed. But he didn’t stop there. Your eyes went wide as your back met the mattress and he landed on top of you. Any strength you had left was gone, and his weight on top of you knocked the wind out of you.

He pinned your hands above your head, his face inches from yours. “None of that.” The tip of his nose brushed against yours. “Or do I have to remind you that your life is in my hands now?”

You blinked back tears. “Please,” you whispered, your voice shaky.

He shushed you, his eyes fluttering closed before closing the gap between your lips. The kiss was surprisingly soft and gentle. He moved his lips against yours, although you remained immobile like stone. You briefly contemplated kneeing him in the groin, but you didn’t want to push him past the point of inflicting pain on you.

As if he knew what you were thinking, he kneed your legs open and pinned your thighs down with his knees. He adjusted so he was holding your wrists in one hand, his other hand going to rest on your jaw. It moved down your neck, over your collarbone, to grope your breast through your uniform. You gasped, and he seized the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. His thumb brushed over your nipple, massaging it into a stiffened peak.

He rolled his hips against yours, groaning into your mouth. You felt his hard length straining against the confines of his pants press against you, and it was like alarm bells went off in your head. His hand on your breast moved down to flip up the skirt of your uniform, baring your lacy panties to him.

He disconnected your lips to admire them. “A little scandalous for a cheerleader, don’t you think?” His fingers ghosted over your clothed core, and your hips involuntarily bucked against his hand. “Unless you were wearing them for someone?”

There was a jealous glint in his eye as he stared down at you, rubbing your folds through your underwear. All you could respond with, however, was “Stop.”

He sighed. “It’s always the same: ‘get away from me, let go, don’t touch me.’ But I know what you really want.”

He slipped his fingers underneath the waistband of your underwear and pressed them between your folds. You took a sharp intake of breath; his fingers were cold against your hot flesh. He spread your lips, and you heard the telltale sound of your arousal as he spread your wetness around your slit.

He bummed in contentment. “Just as I thought: you’re soaking wet.” He kissed your neck, and you could feel his cocky smile against your skin. He looked up at you. “Is all this for me?”

You didn’t dignify him with an answer. You tried to close your legs, but it was impossible with his knees holding you down. He gathered the wetness leaking out of your entrance before pressing his fingers into you. You hissed at the intrusion as he stretched you open.

“Although, maybe it would be fun to watch you fight back.” He smirked. “I can tell you want to.” He moved so his face took up your entire field of vision. “Go on. Give it your best shot.”

Your muscles seized up, unsure if this was a trap or not. Meanwhile, his fingers continued to move inside of you, in and out, in and out until you grew accustomed to the size of his thick fingers.

“Or maybe you’re enjoying it too much to try and stop me,” he teased you.

You knew he was pressing your buttons on purpose, trying to get a rise out of you, but it didn’t stop you from reacting. With both your hands and legs secured, it left you with a limited amount of options. But you took your chances anyway and, as fast as you could, smashed your forehead into his nose.

He grunted and reeled back. You felt something wet hit your face, and when he looked back down at you, you saw blood dripping from his nose. You wondered if you had broken it or not. Despite the injury you had caused him, the grin on his face was wider than ever.

“That was a good try.” He cackled. “Now, it’s my turn.”

He leaned down and sank his teeth into your neck.

A scream was ripped from your throat as a white hot, burning pain spread from your neck to your nerve endings. You felt the skin snap under the pressure of his teeth. He held you there, like you were a dead bird caught in the jaws of a lion. It felt like he was trying to tear your throat out.

He retracted from you, licking your blood from his teeth. “Now we’re even.”

His thumb flicked at your clit, and you yelped. He started tracing gentle circles over the sensitive nub while his fingers still thrust into you. You lifted your head (ignoring the shooting pain in your neck) just enough to watch his pale fingers disappear in and out of you again and again. He twisted his wrist slightly as he pulled them out almost all the way only to plunge them back in. You clamped down on the appendages violating you.

“You must not hate it that much with the way you’re strangling my fingers,” he gloated.

You thought back to the living room when you had the whip wrapped around your throat, slowly but surely squeezing the life out of you. Surely that tightness had been more bearable and less mortifying. Part of you wished the mysterious man hadn’t told her to stop just to spare you from this torture.

You wanted to shoot him a glare, but he curled his fingers so they brushed against your inner walls, and a pathetic mewl fell from your lips instead. You collapsed back against the bed, failing to bite back your moans as you let the pleasure consume you. You felt that familiar tightening in your gut and cursed yourself for reacting to him this way. Warmth spread from your core to your fingertips, and your toes curled as your orgasm hit you.

Your pussy fluttered around his fingers, and Jerome leaned down to kiss you. You could taste your blood on his tongue mingling with the blood still oozing from his nose. He didn’t stop fingering you through your high. He didn’t even stop fingering you after your head came down from the clouds, still mercilessly stroking your clit. It wasn’t until you whined from the oversensitivity did he laugh and have the decency to remove his hand from you.

He let go of your hands and moved off of your thighs, but you were too worn out from your orgasm to move. He kneeled on the bed next to you and stared at his fingers glistening with your juices. He stuck them in his mouth and slurped it off, moaning as he did so.

You had enough strength to turn your head away from him. A cold hand on your jaw forced you to look back at him. His face was startlingly close to yours.

“You’re mine, my princess.” He traced the bite on your neck with the pad of his finger, and you cried out at the twinge of pain that shot through you as a result. “And now everyone will know it.”

You stared up at him, eyes glassy, the only thought in your mind that you were in deep, deep trouble.


End file.
